Victory
by Writer of a Thousand Colors
Summary: “They didn't feel every death, every bomb. They didn't feel the war. They just fought it. We were the war. We were living it all.” The Allies drink to their victory.


America raises his cup, the contents threatening to spill over the edge as his hand shakes and he slurs out, "Here's to the victory, guys."

China raises his own cup in salute, eyes unfocused and blurry by alcohol, cheeks flushed pale pink. France grins as he tilts his head back, pouring the last of his wine down his throat. England glares at him over the rim of his mug, and Russia smiles, tiredly, sadly, as he pours himself another shot of vodka.

America glances around the table and scowls before chugging down the remains of his beer. France hands him another, and it's popped open before anyone can say a word.

"God dammit," England mumbles, chin resting on the table, cheekbones alight with a red flush. His eyes are hazy, a forest covered in fog, the alcohol making his tongue loose. "What a bloody awful war."

China hums in agreement, Russia nods, and France smiles. "We made it through, did we not?" France asks, holding up a wine bottle by the neck. The liquor sloshes around inside, and England turns his tired glare on the blonde nation.

"Shut it, you bloody wanker," he says dully.

France doesn't bother to reply, ignoring the odd stares his companions send him for writing off England's jab, and the table falls silent, except for the click of glasses being set down, a sigh, a crinkling of clothing. Exhaustion overwhelms them, their movements slow and jerky. America's hands shake as he put his bottle back to his lips.

"We're pathetic, aru," China whispers into his mug, the western alcohol he isn't used to drinking burning his throat as he speaks. The others turn their eyes on him, eyes haunted by blood and war and death and disease and time lost and time wasted and oh gods the horrors and pain.... "We won, aru. Aren't we suppose to be happy and celebrating, aru?"

No one says anything as China turns old eyes, thoughtful eyes, on every one of them, staring at them with such a searching look they feel as if he sees their souls and is examining every thought they've ever had, every thing they've ever done. Every hand raised in anger, every sob from heart-wrenching grief. Every jealous lie, every fear that made their pulse race and breath catch. China knows all, sees all, and it's useless to even try and hide something, anything, from those old eyes, older then any of them.

"...How's your knee, America?" England asks after an uncomfortable moment, and all eyes shift to the blonde nation. He looks back at them, expression confused. His beer bottle dangles from one limp hand.

"What do you mean?" he asks, setting his empty bottle down with a hollow click and holds his hand out as France passes another one to him.

"Pearl Harbor. The bombing." America's face clouds over, lips tightening, as he remembers those heart-stopping flashes of pain, blood and bone, pain singing in his leg, dancing in his nerves, blood pounding in his temples, and that sickening realization he can't avoid this, can't avoid this war even if he tried, that his people are dying because he hasn't helped yet.

"It's fine," he mumbles, voice softer then normal, harsh by the still-sharp memory teasing the corners of his not fully stable mind. No one comments on it, and all stare moodily at their drinks.

"At least our people are happy," France whispers, his words so soft they almost go unheard. Russia cracks a smile, a real one, one that lacks his usual malice.

"That's because, although they fought in this bloody war," he says, pouring more vodka into his cup, "They didn't feel every death, every bomb. They didn't feel the war. They just fought it. We _were_ the war. We were living it all."

He pauses, and brushes his silver hair away from his lavender eyes, eyes much older then he looks to be. "I could feel all their deaths," he continues, voice growing quiet, serious, sad. Not Russia like; the words are missing their usual venom and glee in destruction, but this Russia is as tired of war as the rest of them. "I could feel them die. Pinpricks, all over me, that I found I could ignore after a while, but so many...it was sad, was it not, _da_?"

England's smile is as sad as Russia's. "The bombings in London..." his hand brushes over his stomach, where they all know a jagged scar, raised above the skin and still burning a furious red, lies, and probably will for the rest of time. He inhales deeply, eyes sliding shut. "God...even in the Dark Ages, it wasn't this bad. Not even during the Black Death."

"They didn't have bombs like they do now back in the Dark Ages, aru," China replies, pressing his hand to his head and gazing out through his thin fingers.

France sighs, and leans forward, snatching America's beer from his loose hand. America yelps and makes a grab for it as the Frenchman sits back, draining the beer himself. "Pure swill," France grumbles, wiping his lips with the back of his hand. "Those bombings were something awful. You looked horrible then, England."

"Worse then he usually does?" America quips, and China slaps him on the back of his head with a loud crack.

"Shut up, aru!" China scolds shrilly. His hair tie has fallen out, and his long hair waves around his thin face like a curtain, framing his worn eyes. "Leave him alone, aru. The war affected him worse then you; he deserves his peace, aru."

"How do you know it affected him worse then me?! You couldn't even tell what your precious Japan was going to do to me!" America snaps, banging his hands down on the table. China flinches back, eyes shutting tightly. "Maybe I suffered too," America barrels on, ignoring China's expression of pain, "Maybe my people died to help save you."

"And maybe we're all hurting," Russia says softly. France is the only one who hears, and his lips quirk into a tiny, strained smile. Russia was affected by this war as well, and it has made him somewhat more gentle. Or maybe it's just the alcohol in his system.

America continues to rant on, his words slurring together as his head tilts forward, until his chin is touching his chest, fingers tangling in his messy ash-blonde hair. China is biting his lip, blinking hard to force back his tears.

England has leaned back in his chair, head tilted back so he can stare at the ceiling. He finds himself counting the cracks, and wonders if he's more broken then the ceiling is, wonders how high the number of cracks inside of him is. Wonders how many times you have to break until you're broken. "I know what you're talking about, you bloody twat," he whispers. "I know. And...thanks for saving..." he trails off again, and his eyes slide shut. He is tired, so tired, and all he wants to do is sleep, sleep away the rest of time.

America's breathing hard, breaths coming in short pants that sound more like sobs then anything else. "I know. I'm so sorry." His blue eyes peer through his fingers to China. "I'm...I'm sorry, China. That was a low blow. I shouldn't have said that."

China manages a weak smile, although his fragile face looks broken, as broken as a dropped china doll's, all hairline fractures and tiny cracks. They all know what Japan meant to him, but none of them can imagine the pain and agony that came hand-in-hand with the declaration of war, the bombings of Pearl Harbor, and then Hiroshima...

China wonders if he's ever going to remember what it's like to really smile, really feel happiness, or if all he's ever going to have is this dull ache in his chest to serve as a reminder of what he's lost.

"It's fine, aru. Just the alcohol speaking, wasn't it, aru?"

America nods, and holds his left hand out, right hand still holding his forehead. Russia passes him a bottle of vodka, and America nods his thanks. "Yeah," he says as he raises the bottle to his lips, "Just the alcohol talking."

No one says another word, and they all pick up their drinks once more, determined to drown themselves in something that can soften and smooth out the razor sharp edges of pain, hurt, agony, misery, so sharp and fresh in their minds that it makes their hearts ache to just remember. Their bodies bleed, their eyes cry, and glasses clink against the oak table as the Allies drink the night of victory away.

----

**Author's Note**

**I can't picture the Aliies celebrating the end of WWII with some huge party. In Hetalia, countries feel the damages their people have taken, so I think they'd have been too sad and tired to do much more then drink.**

My opinion only, really.

Hope you all like. Written when my brain's so fuzzy I can't think; sorry if it doesn't make any sense.


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